The Truth About Old Age

I just read some fairy tale, I mean magazine article claiming to blow the lid off the myth of old age. The author declares she is committed to aging with grace and gusto: "I work out at CrossFit four or five days a week, I belong to two other gyms where I do boot camps and spin classes. Last year I became a certified senior fitness instructor and started teaching fitness drumming. I run, I bike, I hike, I kayak and I’m starting to get comfortable on a stand-up paddle board. Basically, I’m an old lady who, by virtue of persistence, tenacity and sheer cussedness, can probably kick your butt."

"Old lady," my ass! Turns out the author is 64, which is not even old, it's older, so why is she even talking? Besides, she goes on to admit that she got shots of Botox to eliminate her forehead wrinkles, so she's not exactly a reliable source. I stopped reading. As for me, at 71 years I am not only merely old, but really most sincerely old. I have wrinkles that show on the outside and all sorts of things on the inside that don't show but that are constantly messing me up, and let me tell you, it's no fun.

The truth is, Helen Mirren and Jane Fonda aside, aging sucks. And although I may appear younger than some people my age it still sucks, despite the fact that I am not fat, do not have thinning or grey hair and exercise with a personal trainer several times a week. I can do squats and lunges and all that other crap. I am strong. I don't fall down. I think young. Some of my friends are less than half my age, so I'm guessing I'm no fuddy-duddy. But here's the rub: my insides are still getting older no matter how much moisturizer I slather on my outside.

How much older, you wonder? I woke this morning and tried to stand up but the floor was slanted crazily and the walls were caving in on me. I felt so dizzy, all I could do was fall back in bed. It was another severe episode of my BPPV, or Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, which causes one or more of the crystals lining the inner ear to dislodge and float freely inside the ear canal. This results in a severe spinning sensation and completely dismantles any sense of balance. It can last from half an hour to half a day, and it precludes your doing anything except crawling. Apparently it's caused by "aging."

Besides the BPPV, periodically I get ocular migraines which last about 20 minutes and feel like you took a tab of acid but you don't get high, you just see thunderbolt-shaped flashes of neon white light throbbing in your eyeballs. (Not painful but quite annoying.) I take meds each morning for blood pressure and Miralax each night for constipation. I have almost constant tinnitus and far fewer teeth than I started with. Despite dieting, I've grown thicker around the middle. Worst of all, according to my physician, all these horrid conditions are "as common as a penny." He insists I'm in great shape, for someone my age.

So, unlike the 64-year-old young lady who wrote that article, I'll pass on the Botox for my outside. I'm waiting for the day when they can make my inside younger.

Spare Us the Details

 "Hey, great news -- this morning I had a very satisfying bowel movement. (pm me for details concerning size, consistency and color.) This is good news since I have been plagued by bouts of constipation from my blood pressure medications, so to combat that I take a dose of Miralax every night at bedtime. Some days it works really well, and today was one of those. Have a blessed day!"

Sorry, just trying to make a point. Is it just me, or does everyone agree that Facebook has become a tad too personal? People think nothing of posting the intimate details of everything from disturbing  photos of their post-surgery wounds to sappy-sweet declarations of love for their significant others. I wish they would all just keep it to themselves since few people care, especially strangers who end up reading the stuff when one of your Facebook friends "likes" it and it shows up in your "news."

For example, do you want to hear what happened to me yesterday? I was at the garden shop and they have those giant carts to put your plants in, you know the kind with wheels, and I somehow rolled it over my left pinkie toe and the nail came completely off! It was gross, there was blood everywhere, and it really hurt a lot so I couldn't reach my camera or else I would have posted a picture of it bleeding. Wow, it was a real gusher!

Come on folks -- are there no limits?

On the Ballot in 2020

Politically, things are going from bad to worse. This morning on TV I saw that Mark Zuckerberg is making noises about running for president in 2020. He even showed up somewhere wearing a suit and tie instead of his usual jeans and grey t-shirt uniform. Similar rumblings have come from Oprah Winfrey, Kid Rock, Kanye West, Joe Scarborough, The Rock and Elizabeth "Pocahontas" Warren.

If any of this is true, somebody please make it stop. Or don't. Who knows, maybe who the president is doesn't matter much after all. In that case, here are my Top Ten Picks for President next time around, and why:

1. Louis C. K.: Hysterical, and we could all use a good laugh.
2. Condi Rice: Brilliant, knows politics, and black.
3. Laura Bush: Classy and smart and it gets George W. back in the White House.
4. Monica Lewinsky: She already knows the ins and outs of the Oval Office.
5. Trey Gowdy: Straight talker, goes for the jugular and is fun to look at.
6. Chris Wallace: Fair and honest.
7. Jackson Browne: Imagine the Inauguration!
8. Jane Fonda: Still beautiful at almost 80, won two Oscars, and has a great sense of humor.
9. Tom Hanks: Everyone loves him all around the world.
10. Liam Neeson: Have you seen Taken?

Hillary's Gone Bonkers

Since the Oscars are a long way off and I don't want to lose my catty claws, I will take this opportunity to sharpen them, although it is literally like taking candy from a baby. Vogue magazine ran the above photo with accompanying copy describing Hillary as the "best-dressed guest" at the recent wedding of some Democratic nobody in New York City.

WTF? Unless it was a lampoon issue of the magazine, I am stymied. Also stumped, stupefied, freaked, apoplectic, hysterical, chagrined, depressed and downright disgusted that anyone in their right mind would A, design and produce such a hideous article of clothing and B, charge money for it and C, have someone famous and wealthy buy it and then D, actually wear it out in public.

It looks like a shower curtain, or a tarp or a swimming pool cover. This is something I would put on if I were coloring my hair at home. Maybe. Or having a home birth, perhaps. Obviously Hillary has gone totally bonkers after losing the election to Donald Trump; who wouldn't? As for the editors at Vogue, I guess if you give them enough money they will print just about anything. Nice shoes, though.

Comfort For Sale

Of all the brilliant lyrics written by John Lennon, one line that sticks in my head illustrates how perfectly he captured so much in so few words: "I read the news today, oh boy."

I read the news today, and oh boy. While there was no mention of "4,000 holes in Blackburn, Lancashire," still there was plenty of death and destruction to go around. In fact, being highly empathetic my mood gradually soured as I turned the pages of the newspaper, and by the time I reached the editorials I was weeping into my oatmeal, which actually wasn't all bad since it was too thick anyway and the extra water helped.

Pulling myself together, I forged onward and found a brief article about cuddling, a therapeutic technique developed specifically to calm sufferers of anxiety, i.e. everyone who walks upright on two feet. Business is booming under President Trump, who is making everyone nervous with his constant tweeting. Turns out being a professional cuddler is a real job -- who knew? You can work for companies like Cuddle Party, Cuddlist, Cuddle Sanctuary and Cuddle Up To Me. Following is an ad for one called Cuddle Comfort:

BECOME A PROFESSIONAL CUDDLER
Are you a kind, caring and understanding person who loves to cuddle? Become a Professional Cuddler with Cuddle Comfort and earn great money as an independent contractor. Be your own boss and get paid after each session with flexibility of your own schedule if you fit these requirements:
* You have a photo to attach.
* You can be affectionate to anyone.
* You are accepting of all races, ages, genders and sexual orientations.
* You should be reliable with strong interpersonal and communication skills.
* Ideally you should be a woman -- the market for male cuddlers is very small.
* You understand and agree to the Cuddler Contract.

Do what you want, but I'm sticking with my cat. He doesn't charge and he is sooooo fluffy.

Too Many What Ifs

Yesterday my husband and I joined our friends for a ferry ride over to a nearby island in the Casco Bay, just for fun. We packed a lunch and figured we'd have a nice boat ride, then hike around the island's trails, see some nature and then head home. Except right when we arrived we passed by the adorable little post office and saw a flyer pinned up on the community bulletin board advertising a house for sale. So we went to see it, on a lark.

The owner was there and she let us in and gave us a quick tour. We liked her, and we liked her house. And now we want to buy it. Great! How fun! Except for all the what ifs.

Like, what if it turns out to be a "real dump," like Trump described the White House before moving out so they could do all those renovations? And what if all the island inhabitants turn out to be complete whack jobs? Everyone we ran into said they had grown up there, or that their parents had, and that all their cousins live there too. One lady told us she has been spending summers on the island since childhood, but that, "Even after 50 years I'm still a newbie." What if all the islanders are inbred and crazy, even more than all the typical inbred and crazy Mainers we're already familiar with?

So what, right? Everybody's crazy these days -- I know I am. And nobody was running around wielding a knife and yelling "Allahu Akbar," at least not while we were there, and that's certainly worth something. Besides, if you worry about all the what ifs, you'll never do anything, ever.

So what if we just buy the thing?

Just Do It

Praying is very popular on Facebook. Whenever someone announces they are ill, or that their mother died or their house was flooded or they broke their ankle in three places and will be bedridden for two months, instead of actually saying something concrete, people just write "Prayers" or "Sending prayers," and think they have done something. Nobody writes, "I'm sorry you are going through this terrible ordeal, please tell me how I can help -- I'll bring you dinner or walk your dog or pick up your kids from school or visit you in the hospital, just name it and it's yours." Nope, they just say "Prayers" and that's that.

Personally I have always thought that wishing, hoping and praying are three of the most overrated activities humans engage in, and wonder if other species do the same. It's hard to imagine a squirrel sitting on his fluffy tail inside his comfy nest (or burrow or whatever it is they sit inside) thinking, "Oh Great Squirrel, please let me find a lot of acorns for the coming winter." Not likely, which is why you see them always running around, scurrying hither and yon and especially up the pole to my bird feeder, on the hunt for food.

Having done my share of wishing, hoping and praying, I am sorry to report that none of it works. For example, I hoped and wished, and finally even prayed really hard that John Kasich would win the Republican nomination and ultimately the presidency in 2016, and we all know how that turned out. I recently looked up those words in the dictionary and this is what I found:
     to hope: want something to happen or be the case
     to wish: want something that probably cannot or will not happen
     to pray: address a solemn request to a deity or other object of worship
 
This explains why I haven't lost those stubborn ten pounds.

The Irresponsible Press

I hate secrets, especially when they aren't even mine. Like one in particular that I have been keeping since 1983-ish, for someone I am not even friends with anymore. It's a juicy one, involving a married man and a best friend and another friend, and I'd love to spill it to someone but I promised not to so I don't, and won't. It's best that way since nobody stands to gain and everyone stands to lose.

Washington Post Editor-in-Chief Martin Baron about to puke after reading his own newspaper.

Too bad the once esteemed but now trashy Washington Post doesn't feel the same way. Claiming they have a "duty" to report the "news," actually their lone motive is increasing their obscene profits. To that end, yesterday the paper printed every word of a private phone conversation between POTUS and the leader of a foreign country that was leaked to them by some lowlife ingrate with access to the White House. 

It's bad enough that vile insiders continue to leak classified information, but not half as bad as when the press spreads it to the entire world.

Euphemisms Suck

SO MANY PROBLEMS could be eradicated if people stopped speaking in euphemisms and started speaking the truth. Euphemisms serve no purpose other than to make bad things sound nicer. And when bad things sound nicer, they are apt to continue because after all, they're not really so bad. Like saying "every woman has the right to choose what happens to her own body" is so much nicer than saying "every woman has the right to kill the new human being growing inside her," despite the fact that it's the only way we get any new human beings. Ditto saying Planned Parenthood is devoted to women's health, unless health is defined as the absence of a baby in a uterus.

Case in point: I just heard TV reporter Andrea Mitchell call Trump's new communications director Gen. John Kelly a "great guy and a true patriot. " She gave as the leading example of his patriotic great-guyness the fact that "he sacrificed a son in Afghanistan." Really? He sacrificed his own son? How? Did he have him burned at the stake, or beheaded, or what, exactly? Turns out that back in 2010, Kelly's 29-year-old son, First Lieutenant Robert Kelly, was killed in action when he stepped on a landmine while on a patrol in Sangin, Afghanistan.

So seven years ago, Kelly's son was killed in a war. I'm guessing here, but I'm pretty sure that Kelly Sr. had nothing to do with it. Certainly he did not plant the landmine and direct his son to walk over it. So how did his son's accidental and awful and gruesome death turn into General Kelly's sacrifice? (I gotta say, I have a 29-year-old son myself, and if he told me he wanted to join the military in wartime I would try to talk him out of it. If he joined anyway and went to war, I would sacrifice myself immediately by jumping off a tall building.)

A popular euphemism cost the Democrats the last election and served up President Trump on a platter when they insisted on describing Hillary Clinton as "unlikeable" instead of "unelectable, hated, despised by everyone including her own husband and most Democrats, she can't possibly win, a drunken toad could beat her." If someone in charge had found the courage to say the truth, they would have never let her run. 

Who knows, they might have come up with a decent Democrat and things might be a whole lot better today. (Just like my Daisy and Gizmo and Rufus would all be awake, if only we hadn't put them to sleep.)

Time's A Wastin'

So Donald Trump liked to see the girls changing backstage when he owned the Miss Universe contest. So he once boasted to a friend in private that women let him grab their genitals because he is famous. He called comic Rosie O'Donnell a pig and inferred that a shrill reporter was probably having her period when she was so mean to him.

Okay, maybe not nice things, but they pale in comparison to the blatant bad boy antics of so many of our past presidents. "Purported wrongdoing ranges from having a serious sexual relationship outside of marriage (Washington, Lincoln, Wilson and FDR) to fathering a child out of wedlock (Jefferson and Cleveland) to having one or more extramarital affairs (Harding, Eisenhower, JFK, Johnson, Bush Sr. and Clinton)," wrote the New York Times in 1998 at the height of the Clinton-Lewinsky mess.

Believe me, I'm no fan of Trump, and once again I will say that if you all had listened to me and voted for John Kasich when you had the chance things would be so much nicer now, but hey, the current president is not the Devil incarnate. It's crazy how, with a world population of seven-and-a-half billion people, the news continues to center on that one person. One man. Just one, or in fractional terms, one seven-and-a-half billionth of the world.

Come on on people, wake up and smell the hummus! There's more to life than Trump and his family and revolving-door staff of incompetents, or even competents. You'd be wise to drop it and start living your own life before you come down with blastoma multiforme, an inoperable brain cancer, and are given three months to live, which is what's happening in the book I'm now reading. Chasing Daylight by Eugene O'Kelly describes how his diagnosis at age 53 put everything in perspective, but just a little too late. (He died.)

Yes, he died, but you are still alive! So forget about Trump and worry about something you can actually do something about. Look in the mirror; is your face a little droopy on one side? Have you been having more headaches than usual? Are you always tired? How about that mole on your neck -- was that there a month ago? I don't think so....

Exit The Mooch, Send in the Clowns

I had decided to title this post, "Mooch, We Hardly Knew Ye," thinking myself clever albeit a bit hackneyed, but still right on target. But when I Googled the phrase to learn its origin, I found at least seven other bloggers and a few newspaper columnists had used the exact headline, so I scrapped it. That got me wondering even more about who first said it, and I was surprised to find it wasn't from Shakespeare, which I had always believed -- something about a guy named Yorrick. But no, it was not. Turns out nobody knows for sure.

There are several possibilities, but I thought the best answer for the source of the expression is an old Irish song, "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye," a woman's mournful message to her husband who lost both legs in battle. Another possibility was the best-selling book and the subsequent movie based on it with the same title, about John F. Kennedy's first run for a congressional seat in 1946. Whatever. The bottom line is, "Ding, dong, the Witch is dead!"

I for one am greatly relieved. It's bad enough having a Pixar cartoon for President, but that Mooch guy was too much like one of Tony Soprano's henchmen to be taken seriously. (Not that any of those political types can be taken seriously.) Mooch, or The Mooch as he liked to call himself, was a clown and now he's gone and that's a good thing. Still, I'm betting there are more clowns coming.